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Well, of one thing at least I could be sure: I was in my own house. For the rest, I might be Rip van Winkle or the Sleeper Awakened. Who was this lady called “the mistress “? Who was Mr. Herbert? How came they here? And–deepest mystery of all–how came they to be expecting me? Some villainy of Trewlove’s must be the clue of this tangle; and, holding to this clue, I resolved to follow whither fate might lead.

III.

William lifted my bag and led the way. On the first landing, where the doors stood open and the music went merrily to the last figure of the Lancers, we had to pick our way through a fantastic crowd which eyed me with polite curiosity. Couples seated on the next flight drew aside to let us pass. But the second landing was empty, and I halted for a moment at the door of my own workroom, within which lay my precious manuscript.

“This room is unoccupied?”

“Indeed, no, sir. The mistress considers it the cheerfullest in the ‘ouse.”

“Our tastes agree then.”

“She had her bed moved in there the very first night.”

“Indeed.” I swung round on him hastily. “By-the-by, what is your mistress’s name?”

He drew back a pace and eyed me with some embarrassment. “You’ll excuse me, sir, but that ain’t quite a fair question as between you and me.”

“No? I should have thought it innocent enough.”

“Of course, it’s a hopen secret, and you’re only askin’ it to try me. But so long as the mistress fancies a hincog–“

“Lead on,” said I. “You are an exemplary young man, and I, too, am playing the game to the best of my lights.”

“Yes, sir.” He led me up to a room prepared for me–with candles lit, hot water ready, and bed neatly turned down. On the bed lay the full costume of a Punchinello: striped stockings, breeches with rosettes, tinselled coat with protuberant stomach and hump, cocked hat, and all proper accessories–even to a false nose.

“Am I expected to get into these things?” I asked.

“If I can be of any assistance, sir–“

“Thank you: no.” I handed him the key of my bag, flung off coat and waistcoat, and sat down to unlace my boots. “Your mistress is in the drawing-room, I suppose, with her guests?”

“She is, sir.”

“And Mr. Herbert?”

“Mr. ‘Erbert was to have been ‘ome by ten-thirty. He is–as you know, sir–a little irregilar. But youth,”–William arranged my brushes carefully–“youth must ‘ave its fling. Oh, he’s a caution!” A chuckle escaped him; he checked it and was instantly demure. Almost, indeed, he eyed me with a look of rebuke. “Anything more, sir?”

“Nothing more, thank you.”

He withdrew. I thrust my feet into the dressing slippers he had set out for me, and, dropping into an armchair, began to take stock of the situation. “The one thing certain,” I told myself, “is that Trewlove in my absence has let my house. Therefore Trewlove is certainly an impudent scoundrel, and any grand jury would bring in a true bill against him for a swindler. My tenants are a lady whose servants may not reveal her name, and a young man–her husband perhaps–described as ‘a little irregilar.’ They are giving a large fancy-dress ball below–which seems to prove that, at any rate, they don’t fear publicity. And, further, although entire strangers to me, they are expecting my arrival and have prepared a room. Now, why?”

Here lay the real puzzle, and for some minutes I could make nothing of it. Then I remembered my telegram. According to William it had been referred back to the post office. But William on his own admission had but retailed pantry gossip caught up from Mr. Horrex (presumably the butler). Had the telegram been sent back unopened? William’s statement left this in doubt. Now supposing these people to be in league with Trewlove, they might have opened the telegram, and, finding to their consternation that I was already on the road and an exposure inevitable, have ordered my room to be prepared, trusting to throw themselves on my forgiveness, while Trewlove lay a-hiding or fled from vengeance across the high seas. Here was a possible explanation; but I will admit that it seemed, on second thoughts, an unlikely one. An irate landlord, returning unexpectedly and finding his house in possession of unauthorised tenants–catching them, moreover, in the act of turning it upside-down with a fancy-dress ball–would naturally begin to be nasty on the doorstep. The idea of placating him by a bedroom near the roof and the costume of a Punchinello was too bold altogether, and relied too much on his unproved fund of goodnature. Moreover, Mr. Herbert (whoever he might be) would not have treated the situation so cavalierly. At the least (and however ‘irregilar’), Mr. Herbert would have been waiting to deprecate vengeance. A wild suspicion occurred to me that ‘Mr. Herbert’ might be another name for Trewlove, and that Trewlove under that name was gaining a short start from justice. But no: William had alluded to Mr. Herbert as to a youth sowing his wild oats. Impossible to contemplate Trewlove under this guise! Where then did Trewlove come in? Was he, perchance, ‘Mr. Horrex,’ the butler?